


Monsters or Mothballs

by Queen of the Castle (queen_of_the_castle_77)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_of_the_castle_77/pseuds/Queen%20of%20the%20Castle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo’s Dad might have been the more experienced hunter, but no one and nothing ever messed with Ellen Harvelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters or Mothballs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bechdel Test Ficathon 2.0 for snickfic’s prompt: “SPN - Jo, Ellen - the monster under the bed”. Rare appearances by these two are about the only things that ever allow Supernatural to pass the Bechdel Test, so I thought it was fitting.

Jo was pretty sure that she was too old to believe there were monsters under her bed... unless, of course, she had some kind of proof that there _actually were_ at the moment. 

It wasn’t as if she shouldn’t feel secure in her room at night. She had her Dad’s knife, a small leather bag filled with salt and a bottle of holy water propped on the rickety table beside the bed, close within reach. Not to mention that there were talismans and such powerful enough to ward off twenty different shades of supernatural scattered around in the corners and on the walls. Her Mom would never take any chances with her, especially after something got her Dad and took him away from both of them forever. 

Yet, even knowing all that, Jo found she still kept jumping at shadows, and she couldn’t seem to relax enough to catch more than twenty minutes of sleep here and there.

She mentioned it overly casually while she was wiping down a bench in the Roadhouse, knowing her Mom would probably see right through her to how worried she was, but insisting on putting on the brave face anyway. Typically, some skeevy hunter who’d overheard her leered and said he’d be glad to stay with her at night to keep her safe. With a murderous look and a scathing, “Is that my _thirteen year old_ daughter you think you’re talkin’ to, Mick Bailey?” her Mom not only shut him up good and proper, but actually sent him scarpering right out the door in self-preservation.

Jo grinned, not even bothering to hide her glee. 

Jo’s Dad might have been the more experienced hunter in the family, but no one and nothing ever messed with Ellen Harvelle without feeling some serious retribution, and everyone knew it.

That was why Jo decided that if her Mom checked out her room and told her it was definitely safe, she’d be able to sleep soundly. 

Her Mom canvassed the whole bedroom that night after the restaurant closed. When she finished, she crossed her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. She proceeded to drill Jo on all the signs that would indicate that something might actually be _in_ those shadows she’d been seeing. 

“Flickerin’ lights?” 

“No.”

“Radio turnin’ itself on?” 

“Only when the alarm goes off in the morning.” 

“Scratchin’ noises?”

“Not inside. Except that one time that –”

“Didn’t I tell you we were never talkin’ about that again right up until the day one of us keels over dead? So hush. What about the smell of sulphur? You notice that?” 

“Bad smells are more likely to come from Ash’s room than mine, don’t you think?”

“Cold spots?”

“Not even a little.” 

“And you’re feelin’ all right? Not sick or anythin’?”

“I’m _really_ tired, actually.”

“Well, Joanna Beth,” her Mom concluded, “I’ve got just the prescription for you. Bedtime, right now. Ain’t nothin’ here a bit of proper rest won’t fix.”

“Does that mean that the room is safe to sleep in?” Jo asked.

“No EMF, no other signs of activity,” her Mom confirmed. “And I checked under that bed myself. Speakin’ of, you’ll be cleanin’ up those mothballs tomorrow, you hear? How long has it been since this room has seen hide nor hair of a vacuum cleaner, anyway?”

Jo’s sigh was exasperated. It figured. All she’d wanted was to make sure she wasn’t about to get eaten in her sleep or anything, and what did the cautiousness her mother had constantly drilled into her over the years win her? More chores. As if cleaning up sticky floors and tables after the slobs that came through the Roadhouse daily wasn’t bad enough.

Still, she figured it _did_ beat dying, so she grudgingly said, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Any time and every time,” her Mom promised.

Jo went to sleep easily that night, and she dreamed of one day – hopefully in the not-too-distant future, seeing as how she was already a teenager and so practically grown up and ready to break out on her own already – being able to effortlessly kick evil (or just plain vile) butt just like her Mom.

Not that she planned on telling her Mom about that ambition, of course. The last thing she needed to worry about was Jo becoming a hunter.

Better if they left that argument until she was old enough to actually go out there and do it.

~FIN~


End file.
